“What are you grinning about, girl?” Mac said as she passed him in the firelit common room.
“Nothing,” Ember said, smothering her smile—which in truth was a fearsome thing, half a grimace.
She was going to make good on her vow. She would become Lord Norfell’s enemy—Prince Gideon’s too. She would ensure this was the most disastrous dragon hunt that ever was.
Nine
The Hunters and the Hunted
The popularity of fireglass peaked in the 1840s, during which the global fire dragon population was reduced by half. Scientists convinced the queen to pass a ban on dragonglass imports in 1851, but illegal hunting continued apace. The last documented sighting of a fire dragon in the wild was by the naturalist William Hawkley in 1869.
—TAKAGI’S COMPENDIUM OF EXOTIC CREATURES
The next morning, long before sunrise, they tiptoed out into the dark.
Ember felt like a spy. She and Nisha met Moss in the shadow of one of the outbuildings, where he had loaded Professor Maylie’s gear onto a small sled. They didn’t speak, though Nisha snorted occasionally with suppressed giggles.
Ember’s guilt twinged as they followed the path to the harbor. She had left a note in her room, which Aunt Myra would find when she returned from her mapping expedition to the Consternation Hills. Ember hoped she would be back before her aunt returned, though she doubted this would spare her from the full force of Myra’s fury when she discovered what Ember had done.
She, Nisha, and Moss had been up late the previous night, brainstorming ways to sabotage the hunt. Nisha had written down every single one, no matter how difficult or improbable. Ember had quickly felt overwhelmed. Part of her wondered what she had been thinking—how could she hope to have any effect on the Winterglass Hunt without the hunters immediately discovering what she was up to?
Nisha, however, had merely put down her pen and said calmly, “All right. There’s only three of us, and we don’t have much time. Ember, I don’t see how we could set fire to the hunters’ supplies without them noticing. Moss, I doubt that Professor Maylie has enough exploding mugwort to be useful, and if she did, I don’t think it would be a good idea for us to carry it around.” Moss’s face fell. “It’s best if we don’t think big,” Nisha went on. “We should think small. If we can create enough delays and disruptions, it will throw them off—maybe even enough to make them cancel the hunt.”
Speaking quietly, she crossed out half their ideas, then wrote new ones underneath. Ember added suggestions of her own, while Moss drew sketches when they were helpful. Finally they sat back, looking at the list. Nisha gave Ember a dark smile, which she returned. They spent the rest of the evening creeping around the station, gathering supplies.
The hunters’ ship loomed over Great Bother Bay. Ember had never seen such an enormous kiteship—most of the ones in London could carry no more than ten passengers, having been built to navigate narrow canals, not cut through treacherous ice. This one bore at least two dozen sails, ominously gray and billowing like storm clouds, in contrast to the gaudy colors in fashion in the city. The kiteship flew the British flag, as well as the coats of arms of Prince Cronus and Prince Gideon. Men stomped up and down the gangway, carrying trunks and packs and weaponry, while sailors shouted orders from the deck. Nobody paid them any attention as they crept through the lantern-lit harbor. A few snowflakes drifted down, fat as rose petals.
Moss grimaced. “Looks like Prince Cronus came to see his son off.”
Ember followed his gaze. A tall, richly dressed man strode down the snowy path, shadowed by a shivering entourage of royal guards and noblemen, Lord Norfell among them. The man had large blue eyes and golden hair, and was handsome in an uncomfortable sort of way, his skin taut over sharp features, his mouth a harsh line. Apart from his paler coloring, the man’s resemblance to Prince Gideon was striking.
Prince Gideon trotted along at his father’s side, dressed in the same green cape and sword. His cheeks were flushed with excitement. He said something to Prince Cronus, and his father bent his head to listen, though his expression was impatient. He gave a short reply that made his followers nod their heads in unison and Prince Gideon stand up straighter. He walked with his hand on the hilt of his sword, just as Prince Cronus did.
They paused at the foot of the gangway, and Prince Cronus said something to his son, giving him a clap on the shoulder. The noblemen bowed to the younger prince, then turned to follow the elder. Lord Norfell fell into step beside Prince Cronus, speaking quietly and rapidly.
Moss and Nisha bowed as Prince Cronus passed. Nisha elbowed Ember, and she dropped into a hasty curtsy. Prince Cronus’s eyes slid over them and the gawking sailors, registering so little interest they could have been an assortment of rocks. His attention made Ember feel small and oddly unhappy.
She looked at Nisha and Moss, and saw her own feelings reflected in their eyes. “At least he’s not coming on the hunt,” Nisha muttered.
Ember’s unhappy feeling lingered, as if Prince Cronus had left a cloud of darkness trailing after him, like a squid. “Let’s go,” she said, shaking it off.
But once they had dragged their sled up onto the deck, they were stopped by one of the hunters. He was a large, bearded man, and while dressed in fine clothes, gave off a terrible smell.
“Children!” he bellowed. “What in the name of the gods are you doing here?”
Ember fell back. Several men standing at the railings turned to look, as did the two women Ember had seen on her first day, both clad in polar-bear furs. Her knees trembled. She still wasn’t used to being stared at.
“Miss St. George?” said a voice. Ember’s left wing twitched. She turned, and met the amused gaze of Lord Norfell where he stood at the top of the gangway.
Her knees continued to shake, but Ember ignored them. With as much dignity as she could muster, she said. “Hello, Lord Norfell. I’m here to join the hunt.” She gestured to Nisha and Moss, who stood pale and wary behind her. “These are my seconds.”
A murmur swept over the deck, mixed with laughter. Ember tucked her hands into her pockets before they could get any ideas from her knees.
Lord Norfell, after a moment of blank surprise, was smiling again. But his smile was no longer condescending—it was almost impressed.
Ember raised her chin and fixed him with a cold look. Just you wait, she thought.
“What’s all this?” Prince Gideon strode forward, then froze at the sight of Ember. “What are you doing here?”
“She says she’s joining the hunt,” Lord Norfell said in an unreadable voice.
Ember braced herself against Gideon’s stare, which registered first shock, then scorn. “Did your dreadful aunt put you up to this? Is this some joke of hers?”
The hunters chuckled. As recently as last week, Ember would have quailed under their mocking gazes. But she thought of the fire dragons, and her anger rose again. It gave her the courage to lift her chin and reply evenly, “No.”
Prince Gideon gave her a disdainful look. “The Winterglass Hunt isn’t for little girls.”
“Why?” she said. “Little boys are allowed.”
The prince flushed. Lord Norfell let out an odd cough that sounded like it was covering something else.
“Your Highness,” he said, “there’s nothing barring Miss St. George from entering the hunt. Her father belongs to the nobility and she is of age. Unless you wish to petition your father to change the rules?”
Something told Ember that Prince Cronus wouldn’t appreciate being bothered about her, and perhaps the prince came to the same conclusion, for his expression darkened. He gave her a look that was half irritated and half curious, as he had on the day they met.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
Oh no. Ember froze. The truth rose inside her, and she pushed it down. But it rose again, and Ember was on the edge of speaking when Nisha exclaimed, “Why is she here? Why are any of you here? For the dragonglass, of course!”
The
prince’s tawny eyes narrowed. “Your aunt won’t approve.”
Ember’s thoughts raced. “My aunt won’t approve,” she agreed. “But my father sees things differently than she does. He gave me this.”
She drew off her glove, revealing her fireglass ring. It flashed in the lantern light, throwing a red gleam across the prince’s face.
“I want to join the hunt,” she said. “No matter what my aunt thinks.”
The prince frowned. He looked Ember up and down, as if searching for something. “All right,” he said unwillingly. “Though I doubt you’ll even be able to get within shooting range of a dragon. If you can’t keep up, we’ll leave you behind.”
“I can keep up.” Ember returned his gaze coolly until he turned away. Several of the hunters looked uncomfortable. They clearly didn’t like the idea of children taking part in a dragon hunt, but they couldn’t very well protest without looking as if they were questioning the prince’s presence too.
Lord Norfell lifted Ember’s bag, the picture of gallantry. “I’ll show you to a cabin.”
Ember glared. “Why did you help me?”
Lord Norfell gave her an inscrutable look, hidden behind a sly smile. “Because it seems you’re at a disadvantage, Miss St. George. Don’t you think you could use all the help you can get?”
The kiteship flew across the water, making good time with the clear weather. The sun rose and then settled low in the deep blue sky, stretching the kiteship’s shadow over the icy sea. The soft-spoken captain told Ember that they would reach the dragons’ hunting grounds that evening. They would anchor offshore, and then next morning load their supplies onto smaller boats and set out for the rocky cove a mile or two from where the dragons had last been sighted.
Ember spent most of the day pacing the deck, lightheaded with nervousness. Meanwhile, Nisha and Moss dashed back and forth along the railing, exclaiming at everything. They seemed to see the hunt as a grand adventure, which gave Ember a twinge of jealousy. For she knew it for what it was: life and death. She folded her arms and tried to imagine that she really was a spy, a hardened spy with ice water in her veins. She wondered what it felt like to have ice water in your veins—it didn’t sound particularly pleasant.
The hunters walked the deck too, some solitary, others clustered in small groups and hooded against the breeze. They paid Ember little attention aside from the occasional frowning glance, as if she were a harmless but ill-favored dog. Ember eavesdropped on their conversations whenever she could. Aside from the prince and Lord Norfell, there were seven hunters, plus their seconds and a number of personal servants. The women in the grotesque polar-bear-skin cloaks were Lady Valle and Lady Tennenbaum. There was Sir Abraham, who was often in the company of the Marquis de Montvert, a French nobleman with a permanent scowl. Then there were three professional hunters: Mr. Black, Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Heep. Based on what Ember had overheard from the sailors, most of the bets were on these three, with some saying they would kill a dragon apiece, others that they would come back with several. Many of the hunters carried their bows with them—this was the only weapon that worked against dragons. Bullets bounced off their scales, but arrows tipped with dragon bone did not.
Ember watched the Antarctic coast glide past. Blue shadows nestled into the snowbanks, and icicles hung down over the water. Mountains, tufted with cloud, reached up to the darkening sky. Ember didn’t think she’d ever seen such a beautiful place. They sailed past an iceberg with turrets like a castle, on which a dozen seals rested. They eyed the ship from their fragile battlements. One of the hunters shot at them, and they scattered, barking.
“Waste of arrows,” said a cultured voice. To Ember’s dismay, Lord Norfell appeared at the railing beside her. “Some people aren’t taking this hunt seriously.”
Ember suppressed an urge to step back. Lord Norfell was richly dressed in what looked like country riding clothes topped with a fur coat and burgundy cape. He wore his customary expression of sly amusement, as if every situation he encountered was a joke only he was in on, but behind it was something Ember couldn’t read. He had brought twice as many bows as anyone else, in various sizes, all decorated with precious stones and engraved with his initials.
“But you are?” she said in a cool voice, the way a hardened spy would.
Lord Norfell smiled, tucking one ringed hand into his pocket. “There are few things in life I take seriously. But the Winterglass Hunt has become an important source of income for my family. Our estate has had its share of difficulties. Debts, you know. It’s hard to maintain a lifestyle. It’s frustrating, to say the least, that the queen has placed limits on this hunt. We should be able to kill as many dragons as we can catch.”
Ember swallowed her anger. She wondered if there was anything Lord Norfell didn’t think he was entitled to.
“My father,” he went on, “used to fill our coffers with the profits he made hunting fire dragons, but after they went extinct—well, we had to start selling off our lands.”
“I’m sure that was very difficult for you.”
If Lord Norfell noticed her tone, he didn’t let on. “Oh, we got by. My siblings married well. I found part-time work in Stormancy.”
“Stormancy,” Ember repeated. Despite herself, this piqued her curiosity. Stormancers were rare.
“I have a bit of a gift for magic, though I confess it didn’t entertain me for long.” He nodded at her. “No doubt my abilities are nothing next to your father’s. All those experiments . . . quite impressive. Quite impressive.”
Ember shivered under Lord Norfell’s opaque gaze. She wanted to move away, but before she could make an excuse, the man went on.
“Stormancy involves too much tedious theory, too many restrictions. I wasn’t sad to give it up. Technically, I’m barred from practicing magic—I had a little disagreement with the International Stormancy Alliance. There is one area in which I always excelled, however, and that was in detecting magic. I was always able to sniff out other Stormancers’ spells . . . you could say I have a nose for it. I’m sure you understand my meaning.”
Ember’s heart slowed.
“Why, your father, of course.” Lord Norfell’s smile had lost its slyness, and was nothing more than a crease in his face. “No doubt he has the same ability.”
Now Ember very much wanted to get away. Her left wing was twitching like a fish out of water. She felt a bit like that herself—as if the very air was suffocating her.
“Quite the man.” Lord Norfell finally turned to regard the coast, his gaze sliding away like some slimy thing. “And a very private person. You know, I don’t recall ever hearing that he had a daughter. I understood him to be a bachelor.”
Ember’s throat was dry, and she had to clear it before she could speak. “My mother’s dead. She died after giving birth to me.” It was what her father had always told her to say to anyone who questioned her. While her identity was known at Chesterfield by those who needed to know it, her father didn’t publicly discuss his family situation. This wasn’t an uncommon practice among Stormancers, who attracted powerful enemies, so no one had ever guessed there might be other reasons for Lionel St. George to keep his daughter’s existence quiet.
“Ah! How sad,” Lord Norfell said. “That must be difficult for you. How lucky you have been to have your father, at least, to protect you all these years.”
Ember was frozen. Somehow, in shifting position, Lord Norfell had moved closer to her. He loomed above her like a shadow. Was he close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin? He reached out a hand as if involuntarily, an eerie curiosity in his eyes.
“What is this about, Norfell?” said a voice.
Ember stumbled back, released from her paralysis. Lord Norfell’s hand dropped, and he turned to face Prince Gideon with his usual impish smile.
“Your Highness,” he said, bowing slightly. “Miss St. George and I were simply swapping stories. You see, her father shares my old profession.”
“She didn’t
look terribly interested in your stories.” Distaste flitted over Prince Gideon’s face as he looked at Lord Norfell. “I expect you’ll want to prepare yourself for tomorrow.” The dismissal in his voice was clear. He could have been addressing an idle servant.
Lord Norfell bowed again. “Much to do, indeed.” He winked at Ember, as if they’d shared a good joke, and then strode away.
“Are you all right?” Prince Gideon regarded Ember uncertainly. “What was he saying to you? You looked like a cornered rabbit.”
“I–” The lie stuck in Ember’s throat. Her heart pounded. Every instinct told her to run, to hide—but where could she hide on a ship full of dragon hunters? “He was talking about magic. I—I didn’t exactly understand.”
“Well, if he was threatening you, you must let me know,” the prince said.
Ember stared at him. “Why do you care?”
The prince’s face closed. For a moment, Ember thought she saw a flicker of hurt, but then it was gone. He gave her a cold look, any trace of concern gone from his face, and strode away.
“Ember! We’re all ready to go—we were waiting for you,” Moss said as she entered their cabin.
“I think it’s dark enough now,” Nisha said. “We’ve kept an eye on the stairwell—hardly anyone goes down to the lower deck, so we should be safe.”
Taking a close look at her, Moss said, “Is something wrong?”
Ember sat heavily on her bed. There were two bunk beds to a cabin, so the three of them were sharing a room. She was trembling all over.
“Are you sick?” Nisha slapped her hand to Ember’s forehead, then just as quickly drew it back. “You are sick! You’re burning up!”
“I’m not sick,” Ember said. “I just—Lord Norfell . . .”
He knows, a panicked voice said. He knows. He knows. He knows.
And yet it was impossible—wasn’t it? Lionel St. George could sense the presence of spells, it was true, but he didn’t always know how they had been cast, or what had been altered. Still, even if Lord Norfell didn’t know she was a dragon, it seemed clear he suspected there was something unusual about her. She felt as if the room was closing in on her. She had thought she understood the dangers she faced in joining the hunt, but she hadn’t, not at all.
Ember and the Ice Dragons Page 11